


Half a Hawke

by fiendfall



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Carver-in-Inquisition au, Character Study, Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, Gen, Hawke Family Feels, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6776473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendfall/pseuds/fiendfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's Warden contact in Inquisition is his brother. Canon rewrite of Here Lies the Abyss with Carver.</p><p>Yes. One of them still has to stay in the Fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry

Carver Hawke is born in Guardian, 9:11 Dragon, three days after Wintersend and three minutes after his sister. He is a happy, healthy, loud child, and the first time he smiles at his father, Malcolm breaks down and cries.

The twins make an odd pair, their parents quickly discover. Carver is mellow and good-natured, equally happy to amuse himself as to be held, whereas Bethany craves attention and is always happiest in her mother’s arms. 

And Bethany does everything first. She speaks first, walks first, is deftly running around the house while Carver is still garbling away happily to himself on all fours. When he gets to two years and still he hasn’t spoken, Leandra worries and takes him to the local Chantry sister. There’s nothing wrong with him, the sister assures Leandra. He’s slow to learn, but he will eventually, and he does.

When the twins are five, Carver falls into Lake Calenhad and nearly drowns; Malcolm dives in after him, Leandra panicking on the shore for the few seconds that both her husband and son are out of sight. But Malcolm soon resurfaces, Carver clutched in his arms, coughing and squirming. The moment they’re on land, Malcolm checks over his son, sending pulses of magic through his palms.

Carver is fine, but Malcolm is thoughtless. They are overseen by a neighbour, and they leave their house that night. They have to be careful.

They go south, as far as Honnleath, and it’s nice. Carver spends his days running around outside with his siblings, or helping Leandra cook. He’s good with routines, they find, and enjoys tasks like peeling apples or tending to their small herb garden. He likes focus and quiet, he likes praise, and he likes having time to himself, away from his more boisterous siblings.

He becomes a different person around them; not in a bad way, only different. He has to be louder to be heard, more energetic, more rough-and-tumble. He holds his own as well as any of them, though, and his arguments with Bethany especially are tumultuous.

When he’s seven, Bethany sets his trousers on fire during one of these arguments. Carver is a prankster, the family joker, and it comes at Bethany’s expense too often for her to find enjoyment in it. Their rows have always been heated – only this time, it’s literally. It’s hard to tell who is more shocked, Carver or his twin, and then they run inside, calling for their big sister who always knows what to do.

Another mage in the family, Leandra thinks, and she’s scared; but the look in Malcolm’s eyes as he explains it all to his daughter, the excitement and pride practically radiating off her husband as he teaches his first mage child… She can’t find it within herself to regret it, any of it, for even a second.

So Malcolm teaches Bethany to harness her magic safely, and Carver sits outside in the barn for hours on end, concentrating hard on a piece of straw and trying to set it alight. Because his twin is a mage, so that means he is too – it just might take him a little longer, that’s all.

It takes him two whole years to accept this is one thing he’ll never learn.

He has a growth spurt at nine, overtaking Bethany with ease, and Leandra starts jokingly calling him ‘the man of the house’. He plays with the village children, lashing together sticks to make swords, slaying imaginary darkspawn, bandits, and pirates. One day someone suggests they play as templars, saving people from dangerous mages. Carver thinks back to his trousers on fire, to the magic that never came to him, and agrees.

Carver is ten years old when he discovers that he’s not the only Hawke son, just the younger one. So much for ‘man of the house’, so much for ‘mage’; he locks himself in his room and screams into a pillow. He’s never going to be special, he’s just one more. He wishes he’d never been born.

Then he thinks that if he has a brother now, then Carver can teach him how to do boy stuff. They can prank Bethany and get into fights, and he can have a partner to practice swordfighting with. He won’t need to be careful what he says around him, either, because his brother already knows Bethany is a mage. Maybe having a brother won’t be too bad, after all.

He emerges from his room rather sheepishly, with a peace offering of some of his old clothes; because, he figures, if his sister is a boy now then he’ll need new stuff to wear. And Carver outgrew it all anyway.

The seasons turn, and it’s Harvestmere. Carver and his brother are out in the fields, helping Malcolm move haybales, the two boys carrying each bale between them – they’re heavier than they look. Carver’s not looking where he’s going, walking backwards with the bale, and he falls, arse-first, into a ditch. As he’s lying in the mud, pinned down by the haybale, his brother laughing at him from above, he sees he’s not the only one down there: a family of foxes stares at him, looking as shocked as he feels.

The mother fox scratches the Void out of his face, but it’s worth it because on the way home his brother asks Malcolm what a baby fox is called, and it turns out the answer is a kit. A week later and Carver’s face is almost healed, and his brother bounds down the stairs to tell his family he’s decided on a name.

As the boys get older, Malcolm’s time is in more and more demand. He spends his time teaching Bethany magic, and Carver and Kit learn swordplay – the real kind, not the games the village children play. Carver feels so grown up, learning beside his brother and father. He’s taken up woodcarving, liking the feel of occupying his hands, and now he whittles out some practice blades for them to use. He beams with pride when Malcolm tells him how good they look.

All three siblings are in the village one day, when some of Carver’s friends appear to ask him to play. He asks if Kit can come too; they sneer, tell them the game is for boys only, no girls allowed. Carver punches his best friend squarely on the nose, gets a black eye for his trouble. Leandra is shocked when they return home, but Kit and Bethany explain what happened, that Carver was a hero. His parents tell Carver he’s proud of him. He wears his bruises as a badge of honour.

Carver doesn’t play with the village boys anymore, but that’s okay. He’s old enough to have a job now, and between working in the neighbouring stables, and training with Kit and Malcolm, Carver’s days are full. He’s not too busy to prank his sister, though; his title as Family Jokester was well-earned, and he isn’t about to lose it now.

He enjoys working in the stables, even if it is often literally shit work. He likes horses, he realises, and the stable owner is an agreeable man. He even gets to take the horses out, and though he falls off a couple of times he’s soon pretty good. He likes having something that’s just his; Bethany and Kit can’t ride, but he can, and it’s the only thing he’s ever done first. It’s nice.

That is, until the stabemaster glares at him one day and tells him to get on home to his witch sister, and Carver runs the two miles back to their house to tell his family they have to move again.

They pack in a whirlwind, but it’s still not enough. The Templars are knocking on their door all too soon, and Kit grabs the twins, dashes out the back door. They hide in the trees at the back of the house; hear their parents muffled voices inside, the Templars’ shouts, their mother’s cry. There’s a burst of light, several screams. And then nothing, for an eternity.

Finally – finally – their mother emerges, and tells them in a steady, steely voice that they have to leave, and that their father is dead.

Carver is fourteen.

They go to Lothering, and things are never the same again.

Their mother is quiet. Carver, for the first time ever, cannot raise his family’s spirits with a jig or a joke. He stops trying. Bethany spends the first two weeks in her room, refuses to leave, barely eats. Eventually Kit goes to her; Carver doesn’t know what his brother says, but Bethany is at breakfast the next day as if nothing had ever happened.

Kit tries to fill the void left by their father, and Carver tries not to resent him for it. But Kit will never be Malcolm, no matter how hard he wants to be, and Carver’s too angry to be generous. Between Leandra’s obvious grief, Bethany’s pretending like everything is fine, and Kit’s half-baked attempts to play house, Carver has had enough. He knows he’s being moody, sullen, bratty. He just doesn’t care.

He decides to leave, one day in Bloomingtide, when the sun is high and he’s been working all day and the thought of returning to his dreary little house, with its dreary occupants, is just too much to stomach. He’s been paid for the week, and he can make it to Redcliffe village in three days or so. He’s old enough to leave, strike out on his own. He can send a letter home once he gets there.

The thought is utterly freeing.

He walks for nearly a whole day. But it’s further to Redcliffe than he thought, and he’s getting hungry.

And then he finds the dog.

She’s a mabari, and she’s hurt. In fact, she’s lying in the middle of the road, and at first Carver thinks she’s dead. But then she looks up at him with her big brown eyes, full of love and warmth, and suddenly he’s sitting in the road beside her and crying, big wracking sobs that reverberate through his entire body, and he’s so damn tired, of everything, of it all. And the only creature in this whole world who seems to understand is some half-dead mabari.

He’s run over that day so many times in his head, because he can’t shake the idea that it’s his fault his father is dead. If only he’d run faster back from the stable – or maybe if he’d never started working there at all, then maybe Malcolm would still be alive. He must have let something slip to the stablemaster, or maybe he just acted suspicious, or… He should have known it was too good to be true.

And this dog just puts her head in his lap, licks his hand, lets him cry into her fur.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually he realises he needs to get moving. The dog is hurt, and Maker damn him if he’s going to let her die. He can help her. He knows the only healing mage for miles around.

And so he turns around and carries the dog home.

His whole family comes alive when he appears in the door, and they’re louder and brighter than he’s seen them in weeks. They all rush to embrace him, and Bethany seems to take actual pleasure in healing the dog – who Carver names Rohan, after one of the old heroes.

And then Rohan looks up at Kit. And she imprints.

Kit tries to give the dog back to Carver, but nothing works. Rohan very clearly wants to be Kit’s dog – she curls up on his bed, she follows him around, she growls at anyone who so much as raises their voice to him. And Carver decides he hates his brother.

Years pass, and things change. But it will never be like it used to. Everyone is still distant, less a family and more a group of people who cannot bring themselves to hold a conversation with one another. Carver rises early to practice his swordplay alone.

And then word goes out that King Cailan is raising an army. He leaves without a second thought.

Kit follows him. Of course he does.

Carver is nineteen when he stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother and his neighbours, braced against the onslaught of the darkspawn. Nineteen, when he hacks and slashes his way through endless creatures, watches everyone around him fall; nineteen, when his king dies on that same battlefield, when the reinforcements they were promised never arrive; nineteen, when his brother finds him in the melee, drenched in blood; nineteen, when they run.

They find Bethany and Leandra, and they keep running. All the way into the ogre that takes his twin; that smashes her body into the ground like she’s nothing, and Carver chokes on his own uselessness, raises his blade with a cry. The brothers take the beast down together, turn to see Bethany.

It doesn’t even occur to him that she won’t be okay. She’s a mage; she’s always been stronger than him, better than him, she’s always done everything first, been everything he wanted to be, should have been. He’s been told more times than he can count how he should be more like his sister. She’s the good one. She has to be okay.

It is the tenth day of Drakonis, 9:30 Dragon, and Carver Hawke has been nineteen for a month when his sister dies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I’m worried about her,’ he says, and his voice scratches his throat. He hasn’t let himself admit this, not until now, and saying the words aloud gives them power. He glances up at Fenris, who is looking at him with such tenderness in his eyes that Hawke wants to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter was bby hawke feels, now have some big hawke feels =]

It’s further to Skyhold than he had thought, and Kit Hawke pauses on a snowy outcrop to catch his breath. It is honestly a gorgeous vista, all white-tipped mountains as if they’d been crowned with icing. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this high in his life; it feels like he’s walking among the very clouds themselves. The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky watercolour pink.

‘Stopping again, Hawke?’ Fenris’ voice at his shoulder is deadpan, but Hawke can hear the subtle lightness that means he’s teasing.

‘Oh, you know me. Never could resist a good, er-’ he waves his hand eloquently, ‘scenery and all that.’

‘Ah, of course.’

They stand in silence for a moment, looking out over the mountains. It’s easy to feel small up here, surrounded by all this. And that’s not going to go away – Varric called him here to aid the Inquisition, whatever that means. The Inquisition, headed up by the Herald of Andraste. Whichever way you slice it, that’s big time. Hawke’s just a guy who fought a lot of people, and was lucky that they mostly turned out to be the right ones.

But even that was a long time ago. Now he’s just a guy who has to live with his mistakes.

And hope that he isn’t making one, right now.

When Varric’s letter arrived, he knew he had to go. Varric wouldn’t ask unless it was desperate; the man had sat tight-lipped through a Seeker’s interrogation (and Hawke will owe him for years over that one). So he read the letter, kissed his daughter on the head, and told Fenris he had to leave.

And Fenris refused to let him go. They had spent too long apart before to do so again now. They would go together, or not at all.

It had taken them so long to build a life – so many years dancing around each other in Kirkwall, so many years on the road, running and hiding and killing slavers and renegade Templars and anyone else they came across who did their talking with their blades.

And then, finally, they stopped. Found a cottage on the coast, where Fenris can take the little boat out to fish, and Hawke can tend to their vegetable garden and feed the goat he’d affectionately dubbed Maferath due to its shifty eyes, and Rohan had space to run around and a warm spot by the fire. It’s small, and it’s not how he’d imagined his life turning out, but it’s home.

He should’ve known it was too good to be true. He has a bad track record with homes.

But this was different. They found a daughter.

‘I’m worried about her,’ he says, and his voice scratches his throat. He hasn’t let himself admit this, not until now, and saying the words aloud gives them power. He glances up at Fenris, who is looking at him with such tenderness in his eyes that Hawke wants to cry.

‘You would be foolish not to, I believe,’ Fenris says gently. ‘But she is strong, she is protected. She will be fine.’

Fenris has never been one to offer empty platitudes. He speaks from the heart, always. And Hawke trusts him with every fibre of his being.

And yet if Andraste herself appeared before him in a blaze of glory to personally vouch for his daughter’s safety, Hawke would still doubt.

After he watched his family die, one by one, Hawke wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to love someone again – not properly, whole-heartedly, with no reservations or regrets. It took him a long time to realise what he felt for Fenris was real, longer still to accept it, and the risks that come with bearing your soul.

But Merry? She burst into his life, into his heart, leaving him whirling. She’s barely been a part of their little family for a year (the family she created with her presence), but she has already changed everything. He loves her more fiercely than he had even thought possible, and he knows he would destroy anything that threatened to hurt her without a second thought. 

He wonders if this is how his father felt, when he stood between the Templars and Bethany.

And now he’s leaving his daughter behind, thousands of miles away halfway up a mountain; and worse, Fenris is here beside him, and though he is a rock by Hawke’s side he can’t help being painfully aware of the fact that they have never left Merry alone. One of them has always been with her, and the thought of something happening to her while they are both so far away, oblivious – they could be catching up with Varric, meeting the Inquisitor, kissing each other in a moment of quiet – and their daughter could be hurt, could be _killed_ , and they wouldn’t even know.

He feels his throat close up with terror, his lungs full of brambles. _He has to get back to her he has to get back he has to he has to he_

A hand on his arm, firm but gentle, brings him back.

‘She will be alright,’ Fenris says, calm in the face of Hawke’s panic, and Hawke clings to him like a lifeline, following his voice back to shore. ‘She will be alright.’

‘Am I a bad father?’ The words stick to his tongue, choking up his gullet, but somehow Fenris understands him anyway.

‘Am I?’ Fenris responds, and Hawke recoils. Fenris is the _best_ father – and Hawke says that as someone who idolised his own parents. Fenris is stern and gentle by turns, careful and caring and so so tender, and he looks at Merry with wonder in his eyes that something so good could happen to him. Hawke wants to hang every moment they have together in the stars, a thousand snapshots of Fenris and Merry: them playing hide-and-seek, Merry’s infectious giggles tempered by Fenris’ low laughter; coming back from a walk with Rohan, all three of them covered head-to-toe in mud; Fenris tucking Merry into bed, settling down in a chair beside her, and reading to her until she falls asleep, his voice more effective than any cradle song.

‘ _No_ ,’ he says vehemently, because Fenris cannot believe he is anything less than a wonderful, wonderful parent.

‘Then neither are you.’

He struggles for breath. ‘But I left her!’

Fenris’ arms come around his shoulders, pulling him in close, and Hawke rests his head on his husband’s chest, the hammering of his heart pounding through his whole body.

‘So did I, remember? She understands, and we will be home as soon as we can. She is in good hands. Aveline and Donnic will let no harm come to her. Worrying will not help her,’ Fenris says quietly, with that voice more soothing than a lullaby. ‘All we can do is help here however we can, and return home.’

Hawke breathes. His daughter is safe. This is not for ever. They will go back to her, and she will be waiting for them, happy and healthy. He offers Fenris a smile. ‘You’re right.’

Fenris chuckles, and it reverberates through his chest. He kisses Hawke’s forehead like it is something precious. ‘I know I am.’

They stand in silence, looking out at the mountains once more. The sun has set, the sky charcoaled into dark, the clouds bruise-grey. Their daughter is a sea away, but they’re both here, and Hawke’s hand finds Fenris’ in the twilight.

Fenris runs his thumb over Hawke’s knuckles, and he can’t help the smile that rises to his lips.

‘Would you look at that?’ he muses, and Fenris looks at him quizzically. Hawke tugs on Fenris’ arm slightly. ‘Look what I’ve found.’

Fenris’ mouth twists. ‘That’s my hand, Hawke.’

‘Is it really?’ He contemplates it for a moment, at the way Fenris’ long fingers neatly curl around his, his own hand nestled within. They’ve always fit well together. He lifts it to his face, presses a kiss between their palms.

The elf rolls his eyes. ‘You truly are a ridiculous man.’

‘You knew that when you married me.’

It’s cold on the mountain, but the pair make their way to Skyhold hand-in-hand, and they keep the chill at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry it's so short; i tried to splice it together with the next chapter but it just didn't want to work =/


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hasn’t seen Kit in years, not since Kirkwall tried to rip itself apart, and Carver, seeing the smoke from afar, turned back to find his brother. The life of a Warden doesn’t particularly lend itself to family visits.

The world is ending, and Carver Hawke is sitting in a cave trying to ignore the singing in his head telling him he’s going to die. It throbs in his temples, beating in time with his heart, a syncopated rhythm of his own mortality. His death is calling to him, and there’s only so long he can take it before he gives in to it – or goes mad. Whichever comes first, he supposes.

At least it could be worse. The Wardens sent to drag him back to Clarel could have succeeded; he could be a blood sacrifice on the altar of the Greater Good. As it is, at least he only really has to deal with the Calling – the pull in his blood, like a thread tugged taut – and the nightmares. Which haven’t been this bad since just after his Joining, and there’s only so many times he can watch his family die, their home overrun by darkspawn for a second time, only so many times he can withstand the call of the archdemon before he gives up on sleep altogether.

Though being awake isn’t much better, honestly. He hasn’t left his hideout in days; the Wardens on his trail are too close to finding him, he can’t risk it. And he’s never been one for sitting on his hands, just waiting for his brother to show up. But there’s not much else he can do, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to let himself get caught by the Wardens and give Kit an excuse to ride in like some big damn hero and save him.

Also, being captured would suck.

Kit should arrive any day now, though. In their last correspondence, they’d set their meeting for the second week in Harvestmere, and when Carver arrived in Crestwood leaves had already been carpeting the ground, the air sharp with the promise of winter.

He hasn’t seen Kit in years, not since Kirkwall tried to rip itself apart, and Carver, seeing the smoke from afar, turned back to find his brother. The life of a Warden doesn’t particularly lend itself to family visits. They’ve kept in contact, though; letters sent back and forth over the years, chronicling their lives apart. He knows he’s an uncle now, although he’s never met his niece.

He was sent a picture once, of the new Hawke family. Three stick figures beneath a purple sky, proudly autographed by ‘Merry, age 6 1/2’. They looked as happy as any smudgey-faced, scribbley child-drawn monstrosity he’d ever seen. He figured that was probably a good sign. He’s never really been one for children, and if Kit’s letters are anything to go by then Merry is just a smaller version of Carver’s brother, and that sounds horrifying. Still. He kept the drawing.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the scuffle of feet outside the barricade – Carver’s squatting in an old smuggler’s den, and after a year working for Athenril way back when, the irony isn’t lost on him – the murmur of voices carries through the thin wood, and Carver’s sword is drawn before the door even begins to open. Shit, if the Wardens have found him, he’s got no chance. He only managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, and staying hidden this long has been the hardest thing he’s ever done.

All he can do is hope the person opening the door is his brother.

It’s not.

Two elves and a human, none of whom have red hair. Bugger. One of the elves has his bow drawn, arrow notched, aimed at Carver. And the human – shit, the human wears the Grey Warden crest.

Bloody Maker-damned Void.

‘Carver Hawke?’ the elf with the bow says, and Carver hefts his blade experimentally. Three on one; he’s fought much worse odds before. But one of the elves has a staff on his back – mage – and he won’t get far with an arrow through his knee.

Damn it all, if they’d just waited a few more days, he would’ve been out of here.

‘Junior! Put the blasted sword down, we’re here to help!’

His sword dips with surprise at the familiar voice. ‘Varric?’ Which must mean… ‘You’re here with my brother?’

The strangers in the doorway step aside to let the others in – Varric, looking much the same as always, followed by Fenris, of course, and finally Kit.

He can’t help the flood of relief at the thought that he’s not going to be turned into a blood sacrifice after all. His grip on his sword loosens, and he leans the blade up against a nearby crate before turning to his brother. 

‘Took your time getting here,’ he says, looking at Kit for the first time since – well, since everything. ‘You look well.’ He does; age is certainly starting to show in the lines of his brother’s face, and there’s worry in the set of his shoulders, but none of the bone-deep exhaustion that set in during his Kirkwall days. Then again, Carver thinks you’d be hard-pressed to find a worse situation than the one they last met in.

‘Good to see you too, brother,’ Kit says, and wraps him in an embrace, one which Carver returns heartily. It’s been too long.

‘I didn’t know you were planning on bringing the whole damn Inquisition,’ he says when they part. He nods a greeting to Varric and Fenris – they can catch up later – and turns to the others. ‘Who’s this lot?’

Varric chuckles in the way that only he can. ‘The archer’s the inquisitor, Junior.’

Well, he put his foot in this one. ‘Shit, sorry.’

The elf – or rather, the Inquisitor – just smiles in an open way that reminds Carver of Merrill, and says, ‘Seren, of Clan Lavellan.’ He gives a small wave. ‘You must be Hawke’s brother.’

Well. He certainly hasn’t missed _that_. He’s been Warden Hawke for long enough now to nearly forget that he doesn’t get the Hawke name when Kit’s around.

He shouldn’t be so bitter. There’s a good reason Kit became known as simply ‘Hawke’; he shouldn’t begrudge him that. After all these years, he should be used to life in Kit’s shadow by now. And Maker knows, he saw what being ‘Champion’ did to his brother. There’s nothing to be jealous of.

‘The others are Solas,’ Kit indicates the second elf, who inclines his head slightly, ‘and Warden Blackwall.’

The bearded Warden extends his hand to shake, but Carver just crosses his arms. ‘Why aren’t you with the other Wardens?’

Perhaps it’s rude to be so suspicious, especially of someone travelling with the Inquisitor, but Carver can’t be too careful. He’s trusted the wrong person one too many times to make that mistake again.

‘I was doing recruitment in the Hinterlands,’ Blackwall says gruffly. ‘Didn’t hear anything about the Wardens until Lavellan recruited me.’

Strange, but not unheard of. The Grey Wardens aren’t exactly known for their great communication, or their centralisation. And the Wardens in Ferelden are still a mess, especially after Warden-Commander Tabris quit.

But still… ‘You’re not hearing it?’

‘Hearing what?’

‘Your Calling.’

Blackwall shifts. ‘That’s Warden business.’

Yet another person who doesn’t think he’s senior or important enough, to whom he’ll always be just ‘Hawke’s little brother’. Void take them all. He is a Warden, dammit.

‘You’ve been hearing your Calling?’ Kit looks so worried that Carver almost feels guilty. He always forgets Anders was a Warden and told Kit all these trade secrets. ‘Maker, Carver! Why didn’t you tell me?’

He shakes his head, dodges the question. ‘We all have. It’s what started this whole mess.’

‘Shit, Junior.’

That’s an understatement. He’s in for the lecture of a lifetime now Kit knows what’s going on.

‘Sorry, is this something else everyone knows?’ Inquisitor Lavellan asks somewhat sheepishly. ‘What’s a calling?’

Carver sighs, and turns from his brother’s stricken face to explain to a stranger that he is dying.

Later, when they’re on the road, Kit corners him, drops back from the rest of the group to do his big brother routine. Varric casts a surreptitious glance back at them, but he’s not fooling anyone. Carver wishes this conversation was over already.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

He shrugs, runs his thumb along the edge of his sheathe. ‘You didn’t need to know.

‘That’s druffalo shit and you know it. I’m your brother, Carver!’

This mother hen routine was old when he was ten, and it’s sure as Void old now. ‘I _know_ that, but what would you have done? You can’t worry me out of trouble! You spent ten years worrying youself sick over an entire city, what good would this have done?’

‘This is you, you’re my family, and there’s _nothing_ more important–’

‘Nothing more important than family, I got it the first five hundred times. You’ve got a new family now, go worry over them.’

Kit looks like he’s been slapped. ‘Is that what this is about? You think I’ve– I’ve replaced you, or something?’

Carver groans. ‘Maker no, I’m not that petty. I just– You’ve always been like this. Over-protective, or whatever.’

‘I just want you to be safe. You know I can’t lose you too.’

He kind of wants to punch his brother. ‘I’m not _yours_ to lose, and you’re not responsible for me. I’m not Bethany.’

That was a low blow. But it shuts Kit up, so it did the job.


	4. Chapter 4

Carver is no stranger to the cold – he grew up in southern Ferelden, for Andraste’s sake. He’s well-used to the frosts of winter, and more recently spent a fair amount of time at Vigil’s Keep, way up in the mountains of Amaranthine. But still, Skyhold is cold. He’s never been this high before, can pretty much feel the clouds ruffling his hair. Trust ancient elves to build something so ridiculous.

He has to admit this is impressive, though, if completely impractical: the nearest settlement is a good few days walk away (as his straining knees and sore feet well know). Just getting food up here might be a nightmare, let alone anything else (he can only wish the Inquisition troops good luck).

(He can’t help seeing these things; he was a soldier at 19 and a Warden at 20; he’s been a Senior Warden for going on five years now (Wardens don’t live long). This stuff is in his blood.)

Then again, the keep – when they finally make it up there – is commandingly placed, with high, sturdy walls, and a frankly surprising number of soldiers. No wonder the Chantry is so twitchy. This Inquisition really is a force to be reckoned with. Considering the Fifth Blight was ended by two newbie wardens and a supporting cast more colourful than any in Varric’s novels (and Carver should know, he’s heard all the stories from Oghren himself, though of course he’s probably an even less trustworthy narrator than Varric), this Inquisition, with all its connections and manpower, should be able to achieve world peace in a matter of days.

Of course, an organisation is only as good as its leader. Ostagar proved that. To hear Oghren talk, the Hero of Ferelden sounds like every bit the force of nature she’s made out to be in the songs. And Carver would never tell Kit this, but for all his brother’s faults, he can’t deny Kit’s ability to find his way out of trouble. (How he finds himself in trouble so often to begin with is another skill entirely, but still. The point stands.)

The Inquisitor, though? Carver’s only had a couple of days to get to know the bloke but he hasn’t exactly made the best impression. First off, he looks far too young. He can’t be any older than 20, surely, and even Carver’s big enough to admit he was a bit of an idiot at 20. Certainly couldn’t have dealt with the whole of Thedas looking to him for answers.

And they do. Look to Lavellan, that is. Frankly, it’s more than a little disconcerting. Carver’s seen such looks of hope, even devotion, aimed at his brother on more than one occassion. And Kit did his best (mostly), and look how that turned out. Lavellan’s got all his companions wrapped around his little finger, and watching him you’d think he doesn’t even know it.

Skyhold is a-buzz with activity, and the bouyant sense of optimism is annoyingly pervasive. Everyone clearly believes in what they’re doing – and will gladly follow Lavellan wherever he leads. Carver once felt like that himself. All it got him was a dead king and a razed home.

He hopes Lavellan knows what he’s doing. Thedas has enough fools without putting one in charge of so much.

It’s good to be in a military encampment again, though. Spending so long on the road with just his brother for company had grown horribly claustraphobic. It hadn’t been too bad to begin with, but then Lavellan and his companions had left on a search and rescue mission – soldiers missing in the south, apparently, and the concern Lavellan had shown his men was encouraging. (Doesn’t mean he isn’t a fool, though, just a caring one.)

After that, Fenris had been the only buffer. Luckily the two of them get on well, both knowing the value of silence, but they had precious little time alone without Kit butting his head in and demanding to join the conversation.

That was mean. A lot of it was okay, actually. Carver had missed his brother, and hearing him talk about his family was warming. Even if it did grow tiresome after a while (Merry’s only six, how can they already have so many stories about her?). Still, Carver can hardly begrudge his brother and Fenris their happiness. If anyone deserves peace and contentment, it’s those two.

Both Hawke brothers had mellowed over the years, their old antagonism burning down to embers, but still. Kit can be exhausting and frustrating, mother-henning constantly, puffing himself up like a bird trying to ward off predators in his attempts to fill the void left by the rest of their family. Spending two weeks on the road with little distraction would be enough to piss off even the closest of friends.

So all in all, when the ramparts of Skyhold came into view, Carver breathed a sigh of relief. They arrived at mid-afternoon, the cool air nipping at his fingers. They were met by an elderly dwarven man who showed Carver to his lodgings (Kit and Fenris went their own way, and Carver didn’t want to think about what likely happened next).

Carver’s room is small but comfortable, boasting a bed, chest of drawers, washbasin, and a window. Pleasantly, it also looks out over a square of garden below. It suits him well enough, but after sitting a moment he’s already bored. He decides to explore a little, and gets halfway around the ramparts before he hears the sounds of clashing steel and goes to investigate. It’s been too long since he was around other soldiers. He misses the camaraderie of the Wardens (and the army before them) before they all both to shit.

He finds the source of the noise, and has to do a double take. A massive, towering qunari the like he’s never seen before – not even in Kirkwall – is sparring with a woman nearly half his size. Clearly the rumours are true: the Inquisition takes all sorts. Even though it’s led by a Dalish.

The woman holds her own impressively, and now he’s closer he can see the raw strength and power in both fighters. Andraste help the enemies of the Inquisition, that’s all he can say. The qunari whirls a greataxe about his head like it’s nothing, while the woman remainds steadfast and resolute beneath his crushing blows. Damn, they’re good.

There’s quite a crowd drawn up to watch, and Carver soon finds himself drawn up in the whole thing: ooh-ing and aah-ing along with the rest, offering shouts encouragement or commiseration, watching in tense fascination. When the skirmish draws to a close, he finds himself jostled forwards by those behind him as they congratulate the two. All too soon he’s fixed by a single black eye, and the deep voice of the qunari booms out:

‘Hey, I don’t know you. You’re new, right?’

The idea that the qunari knows everyone stationed at Skyhold is pretty ridiculous, but Carver doesn’t have enough time to say anything in reply because he’s interrupted by the woman.

‘You’re Hawke’s warden friend, aren’t you?’

He tries not to bristle. ‘It’s Warden Hawke, actually. Kit’s my brother.’ Give him back his name, dammit.

The woman nods jerkily, but can’t quite hide the spark of excitement in her eyes. Wonderful. One of his brother’s fans. Because there weren’t already enough of those.

‘Cassandra Pentaghast. Seeker,’ she says by way of introduction. He has to appreciate that she’s keeping it in her pants, at least for now.

‘The Iron Bull,’ the qunari rumbles next, his great voice reverberating around his barrell chest. ‘Hear you warden types have mostly gone missing. Good to have you on board.’

Did he pick up on Carver’s earlier bitterness? If Iron Bull has heard the name ‘Hawke’ (and really, who hasn’t? Varric’s Tale of the Champion was a best-seller, after all), he’s not letting on. It’s surprising that Kit’s shadow is shorter here of all places, but Carver’s not complaining.

He offers his compliments on their technique, and Iron Bull claps him heartily on the back and invites him for a drink. Which suddenly sounds like just what he needs.

The ‘Herald’s Rest’ is a large wooden building propped up against the south-eastern wall of the fortress, and it’s lively enough even at this early hour. Cassandra joins them – probably hoping for tales of Kit, in which case she’s going to be disappointed – as do a group Iron Bull introduces as ‘The Chargers’. They all reel off their names but Carver’s memory has always been shite, so he gives up trying to remember pretty quickly. They don’t seem to mind.

The barkeep sets them all up with tankards of ale, which keep flowing liberally the whole time they’re there. The Chargers have much the same banter as any military band, and Carver finds he fits right in. He’s always been most at home here, and it shows. Soon he’s telling stories with the best of them, laughing like they’ve been mates for years. There’s an ease to it he hasn’t felt since this whole mess started.

Someone gets wind of the fact that Cassandra once saved the old Divine’s life, and she buries her head in her arms with a groan. Of course then they have to get the story, which she tells extremely grudgingly (and probably only because they’re all fast approaching drunkenness). It’s refreshing to know someone else has a reputation they’re desperately trying to avoid. Carver catches her eye and tells one of his many stories about being mistaken for his – and, for the first time, he actually finds it funny.

They get to supper late, but they’re all still rowdy and raid the kitchen. They end up eating their stolen fare sitting up on the ramparts, surveying Skyhold like kings. Carver teaches them a Warden tune that more or less amounts to ‘Fuck the Deep Roads’ set to music (it’s a sentiment that particularly resonates with him), and then they enjoy a good hour swapping out ‘Deep Roads’ for other shitty things they’ve encountered on their travels (Magisters, Orlesians, and bed lice are common themes).

One of the chargers, with a name Carver forgets but reminds him of pudding, has a particularly good falsetto, Carver discovers, and they perform drunken duets to the applause of the others.

It’s been dark for a good few hours when they finally grow tired, saying their goodbyes by the light of braziers. The falsetto says his rooms are in the same direction as Carver’s, and they wander that way drowsily together. Carver accidentally calls him ‘Cream’ and the other man laughs so hard his voice breaks. (Turns out his name is Krem, so he was close at least.)

Carver can’t help the blush of pride creeping up from his stomach. He hasn’t made someone laugh so much in a long time, and Krem has a nice laugh.


End file.
